


Libations for the Dead

by Laedes



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 14:40:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laedes/pseuds/Laedes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I would ask you to come join me at my table,” Grantaire said, “but as you can see, no table has been spared for your revolution.”</p><p>The night of the barricade, Enjolras and Grantaire share a bottle of wine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Libations for the Dead

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was betaed by the lovely [Kayla](http://ianboning.tumblr.com). Again, thank you so much for your help!

Bits of broken glass cracked and crunched under Enjolras’ feet as he stepped into the Café Musain. The floor was littered with debris: pieces of splintered wood, from the tables and chairs that had been dragged outside to build up the barricade; bunched up shreds of red fabric, from the flags and banners that had been hastily sewn up for Général Larmarque’s funeral; shattered bowls, crushed candles, torn sheets of paper. The café had been thoroughly gutted, and all that remained was a great husk which resonated with each of Enjolras’ steps.

Grantaire looked up at the sound. He was sitting on the floor, propped up against the wall. He watched as Enjolras’ eyes fell on him; he stopped and stood in the centre of the room, his gaze travelling down to the bottle of wine in Grantaire’s hand to the other bottle of wine waiting, unopened, by his elbow – to the gun lying abandoned somewhere by his feet. If Enjolras was surprised, or disappointed, or even angry, his beautiful features betrayed no emotion. Grantaire took a gulp of his wine and waited.

Enjolras glanced at what was left of the staircase. Dawn was fast approaching and he felt restless. He had meant to go up and check on the men who were keeping watch from the first-floor windows of the Musain – perhaps stay with them while he waited for the sun to rise and for news to reach them from the other barricades. From where he stood, muffled footsteps and mumbled bits of conversation drifted down from upstairs. One man laughed.

Enjolras turned back towards Grantaire.

“I would ask you to come join me at my table,” Grantaire said, “but as you can see, no table has been spared for your revolution.”

“It’s not _my_ revolution,” Enjolras said, walking over to him.

Grantaire shrugged. They’d had this argument many times and he wasn’t interested in having it again now.

“That’s quite alright. I find that I can do very well without tables and chairs. I do miss the piano, though.”

With the fingers of his other hand, the one that wasn’t raising the bottle of wine to his lips once more, Grantaire gently tapped on the wooden floor, the way he had tapped on the dirty, broken row of piano keys earlier on the barricade, drumming out the same cryptic melody.

“It was a very poor excuse for a piano,” Enjolras retorted, snatching the bottle from Grantaire. “Surely it won’t be difficult to find a replacement.”

“No, I suppose not,” Grantaire allowed.

There was a barb prickling the tip of his tongue – something about the barricade not being made up only of tuneless pianos and wobbly tables, but of people also, not so easily replaced – but he bit it back. Now was not the time to try and draw metaphorical blood – not when the real thing had already been spilled.

“Are you going to drink that?” Grantaire asked instead.

Enjolras frowned at the bottle in his hand. Taking it away from Grantaire had been a petty gesture and he regretted it now. It wouldn’t be the first time: the man seemed to have a gift for eliciting such reactions from him. Enjolras had knocked a glass of alcohol out of Grantaire’s hand once, in a burst of anger and frustration, and he could still remember the sound of it shattering to the floor, the dark liquid spilling out and starting to seep into the floorboards, Grantaire’s eyes widening and his cheeks flushing while the rest of the café suddenly fell silent around them. Needless to say, it hadn’t been Enjolras’ finest moment.

Enjolras often thought of Grantaire as a man of paradoxes: it was only fitting that Grantaire, who called him Apollo to his face and extolled his supposedly divine qualities, should also be the one person who kept bringing out his very human weaknesses.

“Yes,” Enjolras finally answered, and he took a swig from the bottle.

A look of surprise passed over Grantaire’s features, but he concealed it quickly, replacing it with a wry smile. Enjolras handed the bottle back to him. After all, who was he to deprive the man of what little solace there was to be found in wine, tonight of all nights? He had seen Grantaire earlier, when they were at the barricade, the way his eyes had darkened and the corners of his mouth had turned down even as Enjolras had sought to lift spirits with a confident smile and reassuring words.

Grantaire still looked sombre now, his own smile slipping away as he took the proffered bottle. He rested it on his thigh and held it by the neck, gently brushing the rim with his thumb. There was something mesmerizing about the delicate gesture, and Enjolras watched intently as Grantaire raised the bottle to his own lips, held it there for a second, then tipped it back, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed.

The intensity of Enjolras’ gaze was almost tangible. The sensation was not new: Grantaire had found himself on the receiving end of Enjolras’ stares often enough – he always did strive for Enjolras’ attention – and he had revelled in every single one of them. It did not matter that these stares were usually intended to convey exasperation or disappointment; Grantaire had cherished even the weary glances and the sharp, pointed looks, so long as they came from Enjolras. But then, on occasion, Enjolras would look at him the way he was looking at him now – contemplating Grantaire quietly, as though he had just presented Enjolras with an unexpected conundrum and Enjolras didn’t quite know what to make of it – and Grantaire would feel transfixed, overwhelmed with the violent desire to bare himself to the bone and pull open his own rib cage simply to allow Enjolras to finally get to the heart and truth of him.

 _Now, of course_ , Grantaire thought, _bullets would probably find their way there first_. He wondered if Enjolras believed he was doing Grantaire a kindness by letting him drink his fill tonight, instead of confiscating his wine and berating him for getting too intoxicated to be of any use to the Revolution. Ironically, Grantaire almost wished Enjolras had done just that – had acted as though victory was still a possibility; as though any man, even a man such as Grantaire, could still make a difference. He wasn’t sure whether he should feel flattered or wounded that Enjolras wouldn’t even try and keep up the pretence with him, but he supposed he could at least appreciate the honesty.

He held up the bottle of wine, offering it to Enjolras and getting a small, grateful nod in return as Enjolras took it. After that, they kept passing the bottle back and forth between them. Although they were both aware of it, neither of them remarked on the fact that Enjolras only took very little sips of wine, barely enough to wet his lips, and that Grantaire was doing most of the drinking himself. They simply took comfort in the sharing – in the companionable silence, in the unexpected moment of peace, in the gentle brushing of fingers every time the bottle changed hands.

They had almost finished the wine when they heard footsteps. Courfeyrac was standing at the door of the Café – or rather, where the door of the Café once was. It was still dark outside but, Enjolras noticed, the night had begun to dissipate. Dawn was upon them.

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac called. “You need to come with me. There’s word from the other barricades.”

Enjolras turned back to Grantaire to excuse himself, but Grantaire, who had already gotten to his feet, only shook his head and grabbed Enjolras’ forearm, pressing a gun into his hand. Enjolras glanced at it. It was Grantaire’s gun, the one he had left lying on the floor earlier. Grantaire squeezed Enjolras’ arm lightly, as though to forestall any protest, then released him.

As Enjolras hurried off to join Courfeyrac, Grantaire bent down to retrieve the bottles of wine from the floor. He cradled the full, unopened one in the crook of one arm; as for the other bottle, the one he had shared with Enjolras, he raised it up but did not bring it to his lips. Instead, he tipped it away from him, and poured the last of its contents on the floor, watching it spill red and bright at his feet.


End file.
